


Off Season

by annalore



Series: A Football Life: Geno Smith [2]
Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Love, M/M, New York Jets, Priorities, Sacrifice, being traded, weird similies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:18:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annalore/pseuds/annalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first off season, and the uncertainty that comes with it, seem to stretch into infinity, but everything has an end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off Season

When Mark walks in the door, Geno is lying on the sofa watching a movie.  He had a hard workout that morning and now he’s letting himself relax as a reward.  He threw on his favorite sweats and has a blanket tucked over his legs, because no matter what they do, Mark’s apartment is always chilly when the air is on.

After dropping his keys and wallet on the counter, Mark sits down on the end of the sofa, one hand settling comfortably on Geno’s ankle, pushing back the blanket to expose his skin to the cold.  They haven’t talked about the fact that they’ve practically been living together for the past few weeks.  Matt jokes about it a bit when Geno does go home to do laundry or for a breather when he and Mark get sick of each other.  But Matt doesn’t press, because he knows that their time is limited.  Geno can see it in Mark’s eyes, too, the knowledge that with one word from him, he could be gone.  There are a couple offers on the table already, and the decision won’t wait forever.

Mark has been quiet a lot lately, looks drawn and tired despite their light schedules, but Geno notices immediately that there’s something different about him tonight.  There’s a tension that runs through his body, an emotion, tightly controlled but about to snap.  It kills Geno not to ask what’s up, but he knows better.  He knows Mark won’t speak before he’s ready.  He finishes the movie, distracted the entire time.  Matt had loaned it to him, and Geno had been loving it, but now he’s not even sure he remembers what it was about.

“I met with my manager today,” Mark says as soon as the screen goes dark.  His voice is flat, disinterested, but his fingers press into Geno’s skin for an instant.  “I got another offer.”

Geno sits up, because this sounds serious, more serious than the day Mark came home and said “The Vikings are looking for a new guy to shit on,” or the time he offhandedly remarked that “the Saints want a better insurance policy for Drew this year” during dinner.  The blanket falls to the floor and he doesn’t stop it.

“Who is it?” he asks.  “The Jaguars?”

Mark’s tight lipped frown tells him that probably isn’t it.  Or maybe he’s just upset that that’s what his career seems to be worth these days.  Geno wants to tell him it’s not like that, not for him.  That he thinks a team like the Jags would really give Mark a chance to shine, a place where he could be the franchise; but he can never find a way to voice those thoughts the right way.

“The Raiders?” he asks instead, plowing forward.

Mark shakes his head, and something in his expression makes Geno, stop, wait.  Mark still hasn’t looked directly at him.  There’s something… there’s something more to this than Mark’s frustrated career goals, more than the worry over what will happen to them when they’re apart.

It takes Mark a minute to speak.  He looks at their reflection in the flat screen, but still doesn’t meet Geno’s eyes.  He rubs his hands over his thighs, runs his fingers through his hair, takes a deep breath.  It makes Geno feel sick before he even knows what’s going on.

“It was the Jets.”

Those words change everything.  They take the air out of the room, and Geno feels like he can’t breathe.  Thoughts and emotions are swirling through his head so quickly, he doesn’t know what he’s feeling.  Mark is looking at him now, razor sharp and penetrating.  Judging his reaction.  Judging him.

Mark could stay.

Mark could stay with him and there would be no problem, and –

And Mark could start.  He could win the job that had been thrust into Geno’s lap, that he’d worked so hard to keep.

He knew that Mark would take it, just like he would, just like Matt would.  They all wanted it.  No matter how much they supported each other, they all wanted it.  And with him and Mark, Matt would be busted down to third string –

Unless he would.  He’d be third, because he hadn’t played that good last pre-season, he’d basically lost the competition.  And without him, Garrard would be shit out of luck, though he wants to play, so maybe that’s for the best.

But Mark could stay.  And if it turns out they really don’t think he’s good enough to start, there won’t be anything he can do about it.  If not Mark, or Matt, they’d get someone else to take his place.  The only thing he can do is play his best and support his teammates.

Mark is still his teammate.  And Mark can stay.  He wants Mark to stay more than almost anything.

“That’s great,” he says, and even though his voice is choked, he means it, it’s really fucking great.  Mark’s lips twitch a bit, but don’t settle on an expression.  Geno isn’t sure if Mark believes him.

“You didn’t ask what the offer is,” Mark says, his eyes still intent.

“No.  I didn’t,” Geno acknowledges.  He’s burning with curiosity, his heart somewhere in his throat, but he won’t play that game.  He won’t put his feelings for Mark somewhere in the context of his love of football, he just won’t, not even if the world seems to want him to.

Mark shuffles over on the sofa, leans forward.  It’s slow, deliberate, but Geno is still unprepared when their lips meet.  Mark likes to kiss without touching, and it feels like hanging over the edge of a cliff with no safety net.  Geno reaches out and grips Mark’s arms tightly, pulls him closer as he holds on.  Mark still doesn’t use his hands, just plants them on the leather of the cushion as he leans in.  Geno bows back, about to go down, when Mark suddenly pulls away, pulling Geno with him as he straightens.

Mark carefully removes Geno’s hands from his arms and then stands.  He turns away, and Geno aches, because it feels like it could be the beginning of the end.  Then Mark extends a hand backwards and Geno grabs it like a lifetime.  Mark leads him into the bedroom and pulls him down onto the bed.  He’s touching Geno with a vengeance now, pulling him in by the neck, running his hands down his arms, up his back restively, never settling on any one spot.  Geno is on top, but he’s not in control, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been kissed this deeply before, this frantically.  He pushes a knee in between Mark’s legs, grinds against his thigh, and then Mark’s hands are inside his pants, on his ass, pulling him in.  Mark is hard too, and he’s getting off on this.  They don’t even try to get undressed, and Geno thinks about friction and stains on his favorite sweats and Mark Sanchez playing for the Jets and moving into their own place one day.  He buries his face in Mark’s chest as he feels himself start to lose it, and then Mark is groaning under him, his fingers digging into Geno’s ass as he follows.

The aftermath feels strangely empty, like coming to after a blow to the head, consciousness trickling back slowly, sound following sensation, memory coming only later.  Mark is wearing dress shoes and his GQ slacks, a slim fitting button down.  Geno knows he should move, let them both get cleaned up, but his body feels impossibly heavy.  Mark’s arms are looped around his waist, fingers teasing at the exposed skin of his lower back.

“What’s the offer?” he asks drowsily, not because it makes a difference, but because he wants to know.  He wants to go into this eyes open, no illusions.

Mark doesn’t answer immediately, but never stops drawing patterns on Geno’s skin.  “A one year contract.  A pay cut.”  From his tone, Geno can tell it has to be a big one.  “Second string.”

“What about Matt?” he asks.  It’s not the first thing he thinks of, but it’s the first thing he can say.

Mark sighs softly.  “We didn’t talk about him.”  His hand stills, flattening on Geno’s back, as if trying to sense how much tension remains.  Enough for him to continue, Geno figures.  “But if I had to guess… they want to give him a year or two more before they bring him up for good.  Simms will be fine.”

Geno senses a bit of resentment in Mark’s tone, whether over Matt’s job security or his concern over it, he’s not sure.  With a herculean effort, Geno inches his leaden body back so he can look Mark in the eye.

“You don’t have to take it for me,” he says, though it kills him to do so.

Mark just looks at him for long moments, something warm and liquid in his expression.  “For you?” he asks softly.  As if the assumption is wrong, even though the terms don’t favor him, seem designed to drive him away.  He shakes his head.  “For you, I’d agree to play backup to Eli Manning.  This is easy.  I want to stay a Jet.  They know it.”

The words fill Geno with a warm flush, and he ducks his head to hide it.  He’s not sure if he really believes Mark means it, because he doesn’t believe playing second to Eli is anyone’s career goal, and Mark has never really said… anything.  Then Mark taps his chin, tilts Geno’s head up.  There’s a soft smile on his lips and his kiss is sweet like cherry wine, goes down easy and makes Geno feel swimmingly drunk.

They’ve never really talked about their hopes and their dreams.  And Geno has assumed that it’s because they’ve both known all along what the answers would be.  That they would compete, and that one, or both, of them would lose and have to leave or settle for less.  Because that’s just how the NFL works.  There are so few spots for a quarterback, and each year it becomes less and less likely that one of them will be yours.  And to be one of the good ones, much less one of the greats?  The odds are astronomical.

“Come shower with me, Gene,” Mark murmurs invitingly, nuzzling Geno’s cheek.  “And I’ll throw those shitty West Virginia rags you love so much in the wash.”

Geno goes, drags himself out of the bed and into the bathroom, feeling all the while that this has been some kind of test.  He finds he doesn’t mind so much when Mark joins him under the hot spray.  He leans his weight against Mark, and Mark supports him, sucking kisses along his neckline, trying his hardest to make a bruise come to the surface.  It could be like this next year. 

It could be like this, and all one of them would have to do is give up.

 


End file.
